To the End
by distantattraction
Summary: A sequence of drabbles in which the characters of the game, but most notably Cole and Roy, reflect on their lives and the events at the end. Spoilers for the game ending.
1. Mementos

Cole didn't know what other people used as mementos. Probably photographs-that seemed like a reasonable guess. But he wasn't like other people. They would, he supposed, sit with their loved ones and thumb through the books, pausing to laugh at the black-and-white stills of birthday parties and vacations, remembering the events surrounding the click of the shutter.

Cole didn't need pictures to remember. He had always had an excellent mind for names, faces, conversations. He didn't need a photograph to know what a suspect had claimed or what the murder weapon looked like. The sketches he always made in his notebook were just precautions, usually unnecessary ones.

No, what Cole did to create markers for his memories was different, he thought, from that which anyone else did. He would buy a suit.

And so it came to be that Cole stood alone, looking into his closet, remembering. On the far left, slowly gathering dust, was his old beat cop uniform. It wouldn't be getting any more use, but it had served him well when he wore it. It was sturdy, built to last through fistfights, foot chases, and shootouts. It had seen him through his patrol days with ease, and he couldn't help but feel a sense of reverence when he looked at it. A lot of good men had worn the policemen's uniform, and many more were still to come.

He turned next to the brown pinstriped suit hanging to its right. It was a simple design, not meant for attracting attention, but that didn't mean Cole slipped off the radar. He was the department golden boy before he had a chance to make any other name for himself. But he was alright with that.

Cole smiled fondly as he lifted one of the sleeves, examining the fabric. There were stitches on the top half of the right sleeve where a stray bullet had caught him during the fight at the Intolerance set. Marie had been terrified when he came home with blood seeping into the cloth, but it had been nothing more than a scratch. That night she scrubbed the red out of the fabric and sewed the torn edges back together.

Cole turned to the next suit hanging in the closet. Homicide was a darker department, and he had selected a darker suit to match. He remembered blending into the night, the navy fabric keeping him hidden in shadows as he took cover behind corners in the catacombs. This suit had seen terrible things, and he had been wearing it when he stopped the most notorious killer whose name would never hit the papers. He remembered the pounding of his heart as he ran through the tunnels after Garrett Mason. A piece of rock scratched a thin line onto his cheek after one of the murderer's shots blasted the wall apart; when he thought about it, Cole could still feel it sting. Sometimes he hated that no one would ever know that he had stopped Elizabeth Short's killer, but then he remembered that it didn't matter who heard. It just mattered that it was done.

His eyes fell on the two-toned gray suit beside the one he'd worn while working Homicide. The contrast shoulders and vertical panels weren't exactly his style, and he rather missed his vests, but he'd seen Roy eyeing the navy pinstripes on his first day in Vice. He just would not let the topic of Cole's outfit lie; Cole had bought something that fit the glamour of Hollywood just to shut him up. It was a shame that tactic hadn't worked, but he thought Roy would have taken any excuse to make jokes at his expense. That was the type of man he was. Either way, it ended up being that he got attached to the suit-certainly more attached than he was to his old partner. Cole had figured a lot out while wearing this jacket. A lot about the dealings that went on in this city, about the men he'd served with back in Okinawa... And a lot about himself.

He glanced into the mirror once. This suit, a simple gray jacket over a dark, pinstriped vest, would serve him now. He needed not to attract any more attention, and this was nowhere near as ostentatious as Roy's orange-sleeved monstrosity.

With one last look at his old suits, Cole shut the closet door and stepped out of his old bedroom. Marie had taken the girls somewhere, making it impossible to talk to her as he had wanted. Now that he had essentially broken in-he couldn't pretend he was welcome here at the moment-he had no intention of letting her know that he had been there.

He left empty-handed, but his memories weren't stored anywhere beyond his reach. All he had to do was think, and they would be there.


	2. The Odds of Lightning Striking

Roy went with the patrolmen who went to inform the newly widowed Mrs. Phelps that her husband had died in the line of duty. He didn't tell anyone he was going; Donnelly would have killed him, and so would Biggs, but the men who were supposed to be there didn't dare send him away. Mrs. Phelps had no reason to think he didn't belong there either. He just said that he used to work with her husband, said nothing about his part in the publicizing of the affair, said nothing about his role in the company Cole had shut down with his final acts. He didn't say much of anything at all, really.

While she cried into the officers' shoulders, wailing that she had no idea what she would tell their daughters when they got home from school, Roy wandered through the home. He hadn't had any real reason for being here, to be honest. It had just felt like something he should do. After keeping a close eye on Cole's career for so long, the fact that he hadn't been around when it ended made him feel...off. Like he needed some sort of closure.

Not that he deserved it, considering what he'd done. But Roy had learned long ago not to let his conscience dictate his actions. That's the kind of thing that gets Vice cops killed.

He ended up in the room that he supposed was now Marie's, that had been hers and Cole's before Elsa. Roy glanced around at the bed, with its matching sheets and pillowcases, at the framed wedding photos still sitting on the dresser, at the family portrait that seemed to have been taken soon after Cole came back from the war. A corner of Roy's mouth turned up slightly. He'd really had the picturesque life most people dreamed of, and he must have hated it. There was something about the way that Cole threw himself completely into his work that alluded to problems at home, though Roy had no idea what they might have been.

He took a few steps forward and pulled the wardrobe door open. The closet on the other side of the room was slightly ajar already; he could see the distinctive floral patterns of the wife's-the widow's-dresses peeking out from behind the doors. Here, though, here Roy saw the suits Cole wore on the job. He recognized the brown pinstripes from the day he'd first seen Cole, all eager to start work as a real detective. Roy smirked slightly as he remembered.

He'd seen some of the others as well, although he hadn't been around Cole during much of his time in the force. But Cole had a tendency to land himself in the papers. There were plenty of photographs in the archives. And then there was the suit Cole had worn during his time in Vice.

Roy grinned as he lifted one of its sleeves, turning it so he could see the jacket more clearly. He'd given Cole a lot of shit for wearing this. It wasn't even that terrible of a suit, really, but it was fun watching him squirm. A lot of Roy's comments verged on flirtatious, and Cole's not knowing how to handle that was hilarious. The grin faded as Roy caught sight of the jacket hanging next to it. He pulled the other wardrobe door open to let the light of the room fall onto it.

This jacket had been one of his. Light gray, with the contrast sleeves Roy was known for. He'd thought Cole might like the blue. Roy had given him this jacket, even offered to pay to get it tailored-"anything to get you out of those professor's clothes," he'd said. Cole had seemed grateful at the time, but he'd only worn it once, presumably to humor him. The next day, the two-toned gray jacket and purple tie were back. Neither of them ever mentioned it.

_I should wear it to the funeral. _He didn't know where the thought had come from, but it felt right. He pulled the hanger from the wardrobe, closed its doors, and left.

He left without a word, walked out the back door holding the jacket, said goodbye to neither the grieving woman in the living room nor the policemen trying to comfort her-they'd see that his car was gone when they left.

He let the thing hang next to his desk at home as he wrote the eulogy, stared at it as he memorized the words he'd say.

It didn't fit him anymore, of course. Cole had been slimmer than he was. Roy didn't let it bother him as he spoke to the people in the church. There were surprisingly few of them-didn't people care about Cole? But somehow he felt he should have known that he had been too private a man to have many close friends-and most of them latched onto his words as he praised the dead man for his merit. That was the kind of thing Cole used to get when he was the LAPD's rising star. Maybe that wasn't what he should have gotten now, at this last speech given in his honor. Elsa certainly seemed to think so, walking out and making a scene.

Roy watched her leave, watched Biggs follow her and place a consoling arm around her shoulders, felt the tightness of the fabric around his own.

He took the jacket off as soon as he got home. He briefly considered trying to return it to Mrs. Phelps, but he decided against it. It would be difficult to explain why he had it and why he was bringing it to her. He hung it up in his own closet instead, but at the end instead of in the place it used to rest. He kept it separate from the suits he actually wore. After all, it wasn't really his anymore.

The problem was, it wasn't really Cole's, either.

* * *

**_A/N: _**_The Chicago Lightning suit isn't actually the same one Roy wears to the funeral, but they are awfully similar. Similar enough that I can imagine this._


	3. Visiting

Roy shivered slightly as he walked forward. It had been months since his first visit, but it still felt like he didn't belong here. Graves were for friends and family to visit, and he wasn't either, no matter what he'd said at the end.

But that hadn't stopped him coming here. Occasionally he would bring flowers, but that felt even stranger than coming empty-handed. Flowers didn't really suit him, and he thought Cole would probably have known that too.

He just sat, staring down at the headstone with its carved inscriptions-the day he was born, the day he died, the usual lines about how great he'd been; Roy always half-expected to see the closing line of his eulogy embedded into the stone. He was glad they weren't. He would have had to stop coming here.

Usually, he sat in silence before the grave, just thinking. Thinking about Cole, about himself, about the way things had been and the way they were now. Roy had managed to get in and out of the Suburban Redevelopment Fund with next to no consequences. He was still a highly ranked LAPD detective, still getting kickbacks from whatever corrupt companies he could weasel them out of, still completely unscathed. He'd expected that-he was very good at directing blame to someone other than himself-but it didn't feel right this time. Nothing really felt right anymore, not when he let himself think about it.

He sat there for about ten minutes before he finally opened his mouth and spoke, something he hadn't done since his first visit so long ago.

"I'm sorry about this, Cole," he said, ignoring the slight quiver in his voice. "I don't really know what I had been expecting to happen, but it wasn't this. If it could have been any other way... I think I would have preferred that. Not that that kind of thinking matters."

He didn't move for a few seconds, deluded himself into believing there wasn't a reason he was blinking so much all of a sudden. Then he got up, walked back to his car, and went on pretending he never visited Cole's grave.

The sound of the Cadillac's engine could be heard in the distance as Stefan stepped out from behind a statue. He walked over to Cole's grave, shaking his head in disbelief. "Did you hear that, Cole?" he asked the empty air as he stepped forward. "An apology. From _Roy Earle_, of all people. I didn't think that would ever happen." He paused, a wistful sort of smile spreading on his face. "You always were good at doing the impossible."

He leaned down to lay his bouquet of gladiolas at the foot of the headstone, whispering "God, I hope you heard that" as he did so. Then Stefan settled down for his own visit to Cole's grave, which he would never know were as frequent as Roy's were.


	4. Graveside

Roy goes to the grave out of guilt. No, not guilt, per se, but remorse. There's a definite sadness to it, a silent wish that it could have been another way. But it had gone down a particular way, and that is what Roy thinks about as he stands beside Cole's grave, a lit cigarette in his mouth, staring into the empty sky.

Stefan visits because he knows that out of all of Cole's partners, he was the only one who had really been a friend. Herschel was next, of course, but he had also been an ally in a way that Stefan hadn't. They were fellow soldiers, fighting side-by-side; that felt different to him, somehow. Stefan swings by every now and again as if it were nothing more than going for drinks after work, but going to a bar could never make him feel as somber as he does when he leaves the cemetery.

Elsa often runs into him there. She tries not to let Cole's death consume her, but she refuses to pretend he wasn't important to her. She and Stefan talk about him sometimes, when they don't care how obvious it is that they both miss him. That's why she sits in front of his grave, thinking about the time she spent with Cole and singing his favorite songs.

Naturally, Marie visits too. At times it feels uncomfortable, like she's at a stranger's grave instead of her husband's, but it's evident to her now that there is so much about Cole that she had not known and would never find out. She lays her bouquet of flowers at the base of the headstone, never knowing who leaves the others she always finds when she comes.

Herschel didn't like graveside visits. They reminded him too much of just how many dead Marines he knew. But he still comes to pay his respects on occasion. He's very aware that there's a reason Cole, for all his faults, was the only partner he'd ever cared to have.

Jack visits least frequently of all. He only ever goes down to the cemetery when Elsa convinces him to. It feels too strange. There had always been something about Cole that provoked him. He'd always been ready for a fight when he was around Cole, and he got one more often than he didn't. But the Cole Phelps he met in Los Angeles as different from the one he'd gone through OCS and Okinawa with. He couldn't quite place the changes; they were subtle, even though the results were clear. It was as if he'd grown up, realized that there were more important things than glory and recognition. There was a sadness in his eyes that had never been there before.

But thinking about it makes Jack uncomfortable. He's no detective, and it bothers him not to be able to put these clues together. He figures he'll leave it for the others, the ones who had spent more time with this new Cole-but then, he thinks, they probably don't know him as well as Jack does. They wouldn't know about Sugar Loaf or any of the rest of what happened overseas.

So maybe the pieces are for him to put together after all.


End file.
